iR  VOIC 


SCOLLARD 


WAR  VOICES  AND  MEMORIES 


WAR  VOICES  AND  MEMORIES 

BEING  VERSES  WRITTEN  DURING  THE  YEARS 

NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTEEN  AND 

NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  EIGHTEEN 


BY 

CLINTON  SCOLLARD 


NEW  YORK 

JAMES  T.  WHITE  AND  COMPANY 
MCMXX 


Copyright  1919 
BY  JAMES  T.  WHITE  AND  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

AMERICA  PAGE 

The  Song  Valiant 13 

The  Vision       ...........  14 

After  Many  Days       . 15 

Shoulder  to  Shoulder 16 

Marching  Song 17 

What  is  the  Word  of  the  Lord  ......  18 

Tramp!  Tramp! 19 

Have  You  Done  Your  Bit 20 

A  Ballad  of  Halloween 22 

The  Man  in  the  Tree  .........  25 

An  American  Marine 26 

The  First  Shell ......  28 

These  Are  Grave  Hours 30 

The  First  Three ,.     .     .  31 

A  May  Evening .     .  32 

At  the  Verge  of  the  Year     .......  33 

Tolerance    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .    ,.     .     .     ;.,  34 

No  Man's  Land .     .     .  35 

Butterflies       ,. '  ,.     .     ...  ...  36 

In  June 37 

A  Summer  Dawn                                  .                .  38 


PAGE 

Those  Who  Return    . 39 

Memories .      .      .40 

Immortals         .      .     .      .     .     .     .     .     ...     .  41 

The  Unreturning 42 

FRANCE 

The  Cathedral  of  Rheims 45 

Here  Passed  the  Hun      ........  47 

The  Cock  of  Tilloloy 48 

Poppies  in  France .  50 

The  Path  of  the  Hun       .      .     .      .     w     .     -     .  51 

Henry  of  Navarre 52 

In  Picardy       .      . ..     ^     .     .53 

ITALY 

To  Italy .      ,     <     <     .  57 

High  Noon  at  Salo 58 

The  Garden 61 

The  Huns  at  Padua  ..........  62 

Italy  Triumphant       .      .      .     -w     .   '.      .      .      .64 

Of  Francesco  Mario  Guardabassi    .     .     .     .     .  65 

Saint  Anthony  of  Padua      »     .     .     .     .     .      .  67 

PALESTINE 

The  Last  Crusade 71 

Jericho        .      .-.*.•.•. 74 

A  Syrian  Scene    .-."... 77 

Riding  with  Allenby 78 


MISCELLANEOUS  PAOE 

The  House  of  the  Hawk 83 

The  Armenians     .      .     .     ...      ....     85 

Heine 86 

Germania    . 87 

I  Passed  from  Dream  to  Dream      .     .     .     .     .88 

The  Conquerors 89 

The  Earth  Call 91 

Two  Constantines 93 

Flowers  in  Brussels .     94 

Five  and  Twenty  Valiant  Men 95 


Once  I  was  envious  of  the  men  whose  span 
On  studious  nights  I  used  to  contemplate, 
Who  through  fortuitous  decrees  of  fate 

Lived  in  the  time  of  the  great  Corsican. 

I  deemed  they  dwelt  in  winged  hours,  the  ban 
Of  dull  days  not  upon  them,  nor  the  weight 
Of  small  contentions,  with  the  intimate 

Knowledge  of  mighty  things  to  sense  and  scan. 

But  mine  imaginings  are  changed  to-day; 
Vain  seems  the  panorama  of  the  past, 

The  years  revolving  into  darkness  whirled; 
And,  clear  as  in  a  vision,  I  forecast 
That  in  the  future  men  of  us  will  say — 

They  lived  at  the  climacteric  of  the  world! 


AMERICA 


THE  SONG  VALIANT 

GIVE  me  to  sing  a  valiant  song,  I  pray, 
Without  a  note  that  shall  its  cadence  mar ; 

One  that  shall  mount  to  greet  the  sun  by  day, 
By  night  the  listening  star ! 

A  song  with  courage  keyed  in  every  chord, 
A  flaming  song  to  kindle  and  inspire ; 

One  that  shall  stir  the  hearts  of  men,  0  Lord, 
With  patriotic  fire! 

One  to  be  like  a  trumpet  in  the  dawn, 
Or  one  of  sacrifice,  should  that  needs  be, 

If  so  it  lift  the  soul,  and  bear  it  on 
To  heights  of  victory! 


[13] 


THE  VISION 

I  HAVE  beheld  no  vision  like  to  this — 

Line  upon  line,  the  surge  of  marching  men, 

Upon  their  lifted  brows  the  chrismal  kiss 
Of  inspiration.     Will  they  come  again? 

Some  of  them  will,  although  it  be  with  scars, 
The  same  bright  light  within  their  leveled  eyes ; 

Some  of  them  will  not,  and  the  eternal  stars 
Will  tell  the  story  of  their  sacrifice. 

But  I  have  seen  them,  splendid,  virile,  strong ; 

Yea,  I  have  seen  them  while  my  cheeks  grew  wet, 
And  though  the  years,  the  uncertain  years,  be  long, 

Once  having  seen  them,  I  shall  not  forget ! 


[14] 


AFTER  MANY  DAYS 

IF,  feeling  that  our  hands  were  strong, 
We  have  been  patient,  patient  long, 

And  slow  to  anger  when  assailed 
By  that  insidious,  grasping  throng 

Before  which  half  the  world  has  quailed ; 

If  we  have  seemed  too  fond  of  ease 
Behind  our  bulwark  of  the  seas, 

Content  while  others  took  the  thrust, 
And  bore  unheard  of  agonies, 

Let  us  be  humble  in  the  dust ! 

Let  us  be  humble,  but  no  less, 
Since  from  our  limbs  the  dull  duress 

Has  fallen,  and  we  behold  the  light, 
Let  us  arouse  in  righteousness, 

And  strike  with  our  embattled  might ! 

Rather  on  Flemish  fields  overrun 
By  the  massed  legions  of  the  Hun 

Or  bravest,  dearest  blood  be  shed 
Than  we  should  fail  in  duty  done, 

And  know  our  ancient  honor  dead ! 

April,  1917. 

[15] 


SHOULDER  TO  SHOULDER 

SHOULDER  to  shoulder !     Each  man  in  his  place ! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  ' '  right  about !  face  ! ' ' 
We've  a  duty  to  do  ere  we  grow  a  day  older, 
And  the  way  we  can  do  it  is — shoulder  to  shoulder! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder !     Each  man  in  the  line ! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder !     The  Flag  for  a  sign ! 
Yes,  let  us  not  weaken,  but  let  us  grow  bolder, 
And  rally  and  sally  with — "shoulder  to  shoulder!" 

Shoulder  to  shoulder!     Each  man  in  his  might! 
Shoulder  to  shoulder !     We  fight  for  the  right ! 
The  land  of  our  love — may  our  courage  enfold  her! 
May  we  work — and  not  shirk — for  her,  shoulder  to 
shoulder ! 


[16] 


MARCHING  SONG 

LET  us  awhile  forget  the  lute  and  viol, 

Their  tender,  low  refrains; 
More  fitting  far  in  this,  our  time  of  trial, 

The  sterner,  graver  strains ! 

There  is  an  hour  for  brooding  upon  beauty 

Beneath  calm  skies  and  clear ; 
There  is  an  hour  for  sacrificial  duty, 

And,  lo,  that  hour  is  here! 

Hark !  'tis  the  bugle  resonant  and  ringing 

Again  and  yet  again! 
Let  every  patriot  heart  go  forward  singing 

With  our  brave  marching  men ! 


[17] 


WHAT  IS  THE  WORD  OF  THE  LORD 

WHAT  is  the  word  of  the  Lord  veiled  in  His  far  blue 

fastness  ? 
What  is  the  word  of  the  Lord  unto  our  moiety  of 

earth? 
What  is  the  word  of  the  Lord  out  of  the  vague  and 

the  vastness? 

What  is  His  burning  word  in  these  days  of  dolor 
and  dearth? 

He  hath  given  to  us  a  sword,  a  falchion  to  swing  and 

smite  with, 

To  smite  till  it  flinch  and  quail,  the  dark  dread  De 
mon  of  Wrong; 
He  hath  given  to  us  a  brand  to  grip  and  brandish  and 

fight  with, 

And  bidden  us  go  to  battle,  the  song  on  our  lips  His 
song! 

"On!"  is  the  word  of  the  Lord:  " On!"  to  our  girded 

legions, 
Whether  they  tread  the  land,  or  venture  the  paths 

of  the  sea; 
"On!"  till  the  children  of  earth,  aye,  its  uttermost 

regions, 

Be  free  from  the  Demon's  threat,  from  the  Demon's 
might  be  free ! 

[18] 


TRAMP!  TRAMP! 

TRAMP  !  tramp !     You  may  hear  the  beat  in  the  high 
ways, 
Hear  it  at  dawn,  and  in  the  dusk  and  the  damp ; 

Aye,  you  may  even  hark  it  resound  from  the  byways- 
Tramp  !  tramp! 

Whither  go  they,  they  that  are  ours,  this  legion, 
Bearing  upon  their  brows  such  a  fearless  stamp? 

Into  what  unknown,  into  what  untried  region  ? — 
Tramp !  tramp ! 

All  of  them  go  to  look  in  the  eyes  of  danger ; 

Courage  be  unto  each  as  a  shining  lamp, 
Though  some  should  find  a  bourn  to  which  we  are 
stranger ! — 

Tramp !  tramp ! 

God  set  a  light  to  guide  them  back  from  their  march 
ing, 

Back  from  the  battle-reek  and  the  cluttered  camp, 
Back  to  the  mother-sky  that  is  over-arching ! — 

Tramp !  tramp ! 

[19] 


HAVE  YOU  DONE  YOUR  BIT 

SONS  of  Freedom,  freedom-lovers  in  our  land  where 

all  are  free, 

Where  upon  the  hill  horizons  beacon-fires  of  Liberty 
By  the  hands  of  hardy  yeomen  in  the  years  of  old 

were  lit, 
Answer  to  the  Mother's  summons:     Have  you,  have 

you  "done  your  bit?" 

Have  you  pledged  your  bone  and  sinew,  have  you 
pledged  your  hearts  to  show 

In  this  darkling  hour  of  danger  the  allegiance  that 
you  owe? 

Or  inert,  inept,  unheeding,  do  you  by  your  hearth 
stones  sit? 

Rouse,  and  let  us  hear  your  answer ! — Have  you,  have 
you  "done  your  bit?" 

Are  the  Past's  proud  days  forgotten,  days  when  men 

were  men  indeed, 
And  the  creed  of  Faith  and  Honor  triumphed  o'er  the 

dreams  of  Greed; 
When  the  words  of  Patrick  Henry  seemed  to  each  as 

Holy  Writ, 
And  from  Lexington  to  Yorktown  every  patriot  "did 

his  bit!" 

[20] 


'Tis  a  glory  but  to  name  them,— how  they  burn  in 

memory, 
Those   that   with   "Old   Hickory"   battled,   or  with 

Lawrence  sailed  the  sea, 
Down  to  those  that  dared  with  Dewey,  and  who  neither 

quailed  nor  quit, 
But,  with  fearlessness  undaunted,  nobly,  nobly  "did 

their  bit!'7 

Sons   of  Freedom,   freedom-lovers,   whatsoe'er  your 

strain  of  birth, 
Native  sons  or  sons  adopted  from  the  utmost  ends 

of  earth, 

Hark,   America,   your  Mother,   eyes   with  righteous 

justice  lit, 
To  defend  her,  to  befriend  her,  bids  you  rise  and  "do 

your  bit!" 


[21] 


A  BALLAD  OF  HALLOWEEN 

Now  there  was  one  who  trod  the  night 

Across  a  tented  field ; 
Above  the  frosty  moon  was  bright 

As  is  a  burnished  shield. 

Erect  he  strode,  in  martial  wise, 
This  wraith  come  back  again, 

As  when  he  wore  the  mortal  guise 
Of  Baron  von  Steuben. 

Although  from  awe  no  longer  chirred 

The  crickets  in  the  grass, 
No  guardsman  spake  a  challenge  word, 

Nor  heard  his  footsteps  pass. 

At  last  he  reached  a  peaked  tent 
Wherefrom  a  form  there  came 

Whose  stately  mien  was  eloquent 
With  something  none  may  name. 

In  stiff  salute  they  stood  there  dumb 

In  silent  gaze,  and  then, 
"Why,  Washington,  didst  bid  me  come? 

Asked  Baron  von  Steuben. 
[221 


' 'Well  I  recall,"  the  General  said, 

"Thine  aid  when  long  ago 
Our  shrunken  arms  were  sore  bestead 

Amid  the  drifted  snow. 

"Once  more  the  battle  bruit  is  on, 

The  fight  for  Liberty; 
We  struggle  toward  a  newer  dawn 

To  make  the  whole  world  free. 

"To  win  for  every  man  his  own, 

For  this  we  take  our  stand, 
Albeit  it  be  against  the  throne 

That  rules  thy  Fatherland. 

"A  throne  that  would  mankind  enthrall 

In  Force's  brutal  chains, 
Where,  a  grim  menace,  over  all 

A  sanguine  despot  reigns. 

' '  Not  poor  as  on  a  bygone  hour 

Are  we ;  we  've  many  a  son, 
And  yet  we  need  thine  aid  and  power 

To  weld  them  into  one. ' ' 

"I  know — I  know — "  the  Baron  spake, 
While  in  his  eyes  shone  pain, 

"And  at  thy  bidding  I  will  take 
The  old  task  up  again. 
[23] 


"Thy  foes  are  mine,  whoe'er  they  be; 

Secure  thy  cause  and  right, 
To  smite  at  banded  tyranny 

That  rears  its  head  in  might." 

Once  more,  once  more  the  grave  salute, 

A  wordless  space,  and  lo, 
Only  the  guardsman  stern  and  mute 

At  his  still  sentry-go  ! 

But  now  amid  our  gathered  host, 

To  shape  them  fighting  men, 
From  post  to  post  there  speeds  the  ghost 

Of  Baron  von  Steuben. 


1917 


[24] 


THE  MAN  IN  THE  TREE 

HAVE  you  heard  how  we  shattered  the  lines  of  the  foe 
When  the  boys  clad  in  khaki  advanced  upon  Vaux, 
How  we  battered  the  Boches  and  caused  them  to  flee  ? 
It  was  through  Captain  Bradley,  the  man  in  the  tree ! 

Where  the  boughs  of  a  pine  bole  uprose  like  a  spire, 
He  strung  some  thin  strands  of  a  telephone  wire ; 
Then  "Fire!"  was  the  word  that  he  shouted  in  glee, 
This  gay  Captain  Bradley,  the  man  in  the  tree! 

Though  round  him  the  bullets  were  buzzing  like  bees, 

He  sat  like  a  soldier  who's  taking  his  ease; 

Now  "Right"  and  now  "Left"  and  now  "Center," 

called  he, 
This  blithe  Captain  Bradley,  the  main  in  the  tree ! 


"Come  down !"  hailed  a  voice  in  the  heat  of  the  strife. 
1 1  Come  down  ? ' '  answered  Bradley.     * '  No,  not  on  your 

life!" 

And  he  stuck  to  his  post ;  he  was  deaf  to  all  plea, 
This  gallant  young  Captain,  the  man  in  the  tree ! 

So  'twas  "Boom"  and  'twas  "Bang"  till  the  Huns 

had  their  fill, 

And  we  routed  them  out  from  their  nests  on  the  hill ; 
And  we  marched  into  Yaux  with  a  stride  that  was 

free, 

Through  brave  Captain  Bradley,  the  man  in  the  tree ! 

[25] 


AN  AMERICAN  MARINE 

THE  hills  of  home  are  lonely, 
The  vales  of  home  are  grave, 

And  sad  the  winding  footpaths 
Beside  a  cool  stream's  wave. 

One  who  was  wont  to  tread  them, 
In  youthful  days  and  hale, 

Has  passed  out  far  beyond  them 
Upon  the  long,  long  trail. 

He  might  have  slept  in  quiet 
In  the  sweet  restful  earth, 

After  calm  days  of  toiling, 
Where  he  had  had  his  birth ; 

But  no !  a  voice  came  calling 
That  would  not  be  denied, — 

His  Country's, — and  he  heeded 
With  all  a  patriot's  pride, 

Just  as  his  sires  had  heeded 
In  the  dark  hours  of  yore 

When  Washington  and  Lincoln 
Bade  brave  men  to  the  fore. 
[26] 


He  joined  the  great  adventure 
To  make  the  wide  world  free 

Beneath  the  flag  that  symbols 
The  light  of  Liberty. 

Of  that  heroic  vanguard, 

Unquailing,  he  was  one 
Who  o'er  the  Marne  hurled  backward 

The  grim  hosts  of  the  Hun. 

And  with  the  same  stanch  spirit 
He  struck  one  last  swift  blow 

In  those  shell-riven  thickets, 
The  forest  of  Belleau. 

The  hills  of  home  are  lonely, 

The  vales  of  home  are  grave, 
But  he — his  name  is  bright  on 
The  Roster  of  the  Brave! 


[27]- 


THE  FIRST  SHELL 
(An  American  Artillery-Man  Speaks) 

TWAS  a  long,  long  hike  through  the  haggard  night 

In  the  lash  of  the  driven  rain, 
And  then  there  were  black  and  bitter  hours 

In  the  lurch  and  grind  of  a  train. 

And  some  one  laughed  and  some  one  chaffed, 

And  some  one  countered,  ''well, 
I  wonder,  boys,  where  we're  going  to — 

To  what  special  part  of  Hell?" 

Then  came  a  dawn  that  wasn't  a  dawn, 

But  an  eerie  spectral  air, 
A  weltering  mist  that  we  blundered  through 

To  a  place  in  God  knows  where. 

There  were  twenty  men  and  our  battery  gun, 

And  I  was  one  of  the  crew; 
So  we  limbered  her  up  with  her  face  to  the  front, 

And  she  was  a  dandy  too. 

We  coaxed  her  along  with  shove  and  haul 

Through  the  reek  of  muck  and  mire, 
And  when  we  had  camouflaged  her  fine 

We  got  her  ready  to  fire. 
[28] 


We  were  out  near  the  edge  of  No  Man's  Land 
Where  only  a  dank  wind  stirred, 

And  it  was  just  after  the  stroke  of  six 
That  we  got  the  Captain's  word. 

A  sudden  roar  and  rift  in  the  mist, 

And  wouldn't  it  have  been  luck 
Had  bloody  old  von  Hindenberg 

Been  where  that  first  shell  struck! 


[29] 


THESE  ARE  GRAVE  HOURS 

THESE  are  grave  hours,  and  yet  we  should  not  brood 

On  peril,  rather  look  it  in  the  face, 

Abjuring  fear,  and  every  lingering  trace 
Of  darkening  doubt,  in  an  exalted  mood. 
Let  us  each  take  new  grip  on  fortitude ; 

Let  us  not  quail  nor  flinch,  for  that  were  base ; 

Let  us  have  heart,  for  we  are  of  a  race 
That  against  wrong  has  ever  steadfast  stood! 

These  are  grave  hours.     'Twere  futile  to  deny 
The  threat  of  Might,  and  its  embattled  powers; 

A  dreadful  menace  looms  upon  the  sky; 
Nearer  and  nearer  the  black  shadow  towers; 

Shall  we  lose  faith  and  trust?     Nay,  let  us  cry — 
"Courage!"  and  "Courage!"  during  these  grave 
hours. 

March,  1918. 


[30] 


THE  FIRST  THREE 

''SOMEWHERE  in  France,"  upon  a  brown  hillside, 

They  lie,  the  first  of  our  brave  soldiers  slain ; 

Above  them  flowers,  now  beaten  by  the  rain, 
Yet  emblematic  of  the  youths  who  died 
In  their  fresh  promise.     They  who,  valiant-eyed, 

Met  death  unfaltering  have  not  fallen  in  vain ; 

Remembrance  hallows  those  who  thus  attain 
The  final  goal ;  their  names  are  glorified. 

Read  then  the  roster ! — Gresham !  Enright !  Hay ! — 
No  bugle  call  shall  rouse  them  when  the  flower 
Of  morning  breaks  above  the  hills  and  dells, 
For  they  have  grown  immortal  in  an  hour, 
And  we  who  grieve  and  cherish  them  would  lay 
Upon  their  hillside  graves  our  immortelles ! 


[31] 


A  MAY  EVENING 

I  SAW  the  long  fair  afternoon  decline, 
And  in  the  amethystine  west  afar 
Outgleam  the  glory  of  a  single  star, 

A  peaceful  star,  it  seemed  of  peace  a  sign. 

And  at  the  woodland 's  edge  a  voice  divine, 
The  thrush,  I  heard,  bar  after  silver  bar 
Of  melting  music,  with  no  sound  to  mar 

The  mounting  rapture  of  one  lyric  line. 

And  then,  and  then,  imagination  wrought 
A  dreadful  change,  and,  lo,  mine  eyes  de 
scried 

The  battle-stars  above  the  Oise  and  Somme ; 

The  cannon's  awful  music  boomed  and  died, 

And  boomed  again,  and  I  could  think  of  naught 

Save  the  world  gripped  by  War 's  delirium ! 


[32] 


AT  THE  VERGE  OF  THE  YEAR 

WAR,  like  a  stark  colossus,  stands  astride 
The  ruinous  world,  and  takes  its  toll  of  fate, 
Mightier  than  ancient  Moloch,  puffed  with  hate, 

Flaunting  the  precept  of  the  crucified. 

The  day  is  darkened,  while  red  furies  ride 
Adown  the  night,  and  with  men's  anguish  sate 
Their  bloody  lusts,  dread,  incompassionate, 

Deaf  to  the  voice  of  prayer,  whate'er  betide. 

The  shrines  of  Christ  are  desecrate,  defiled 
In  wantonness,  though  cries  go  up  to  Him, 
Petitional  and  praiseful,  without  cease; 
What  irony !  what  mockery !  what  grim 

Apostasy,  as  though  dark  Satan  smiled, 
Scorning  the  spirit  of  the  Prince  of  Peace ! 

1918. 


[33] 


TOLERANCE 

Too  long  have  we  been  lax  and  lenient ; 
We  have  been  patient,  though  we  knew  that  we 
Harbored  the  venomous  viper,  Treachery, 

Ready  to  strike  with  foul  and  fell  intent. 

But  now  the  day  of  tolerance  is  spent ; 
Let  us  have  done  with  sleek  hypocrisy, 
With  those  who  strive  to  work  insidiously  !— 

Be  there  at  last  some  stern  arbitrament ! 

Kultur's  apostles,  you  who  are  arrayed 

With  the  blasphemous  Beast  who  drew  the  sword, 

And  slew  the  innocent  the  while  he  prayed, 

Should  on  your  heads  there  fall  some  just  reward, 

Yours  is  the  blame  who  fatuously  have  made 
Your  tongue  abhorrent  and  your  race  abhorred ! 


[34] 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

"!T  is  in  night  that  I  see  No  Man's  Land!" 
Thus  said  the  soldier,  dreams  within  his  eyes, 
Dark  dreams  of  horror  under  moonless  skies. 

"I  mark  its  reaches  vague  and  vast  expand, 

Illimitable  as  seems  the  desert  sand, 
"While  sudden  out  of  it  dim  forms  arise 
And  disappear,  and  there  are  warning  cries 

Ere  comes  the  grisly  grapple  hand  to  hand. 

"The  grisly  grapple — groans  and  gasping  breath 
Amid  the  fetid  fumes  that  choke  and  reek 
As  the  hot  life  blood  gushes  on  the  hand ; 
Then,  in  the  murk,  the  inscrutable  face  of  Death!" 
Thus  said  the  soldier,   though  he  scarce   could 

speak ; 
"It  is  in  night  that  I  see  No  Man's  Land!" 


[85] 


BUTTERFLIES 

ABOUT  me  loop  and  dart  the  butterflies, 

Like  yellow  iris  petals  dowered  with  wings; 

Beneath  the  azure  of  the  summer  skies 

They  seem  to  voyage  on  blithe  adventurings. 

Now  here,  now  there,  on  grass  or  flower  a-poise, 
They  linger  in  their  brief  uncertain  flight, 

Tasting  the  fleeting  moment's  honied  joys, 
And  then  are  gone,  are  gone  into  the  night. 

I  have  read  somewhere  in  an  ancient  book, 
The  name  whereof  my  memory  holds  no  trace, 

They  are  departed  souls  come  back  to  look 
On  scenes  familiar  for  a  little  space. 

Into  my  heart  there  creeps  this  stealthy  fear; — 
There  will  be  many  butterflies  this  year ! 

1918, 


[36] 


IN  JUNE 

THE  crimson  roses  tell  me  it  is  June ; 

I  know  it  by  the  wind  that  never  grieves, 
And  by  the  radiant  rondure  of  the  moon, 

And  by  the  emerald  shadows  of  the  leaves. 

The  fireflies  with  their  tenuous  golden  skeins 

They  too  reveal  it,  and  the  oriole, 
Flame-breasted,  says  to  me  that  Junetime  reigns 

By  the  unburdened  rapture  of  its  soul. 

Yet  sometimes  I  am  barren  of  belief, 

And  whisper  to  myself  it  cannot  be, 
With  all  the  nations  in  the  grasp  of  grief, 

And  all  the  world  so  wrenched  with  agony. 

June  is  for  joy,  yet  horror  stalks  abroad, 

And  he  who  wrought  the  crime  blasphemes  to  God. 


[37] 


A  SUMMER  DAWN 

I  BOUSED  me  with  the  sun ;  the  bough  tops  stirred, 
Touched  by  the  tender  fingers  of  the  breeze, 

And  from  a  grove  I  heard  a  hidden  bird 
Salute  the  dawn  with  golden  melodies. 

There  was  no  other  sound  save  chanticleer 
With  his  sharp  clarion  note,  although  I  knew 

Across  the  garden  paths,  in  whispers  clear, 
The  roses  might  be  talking  of  the  dew. 

So  perfect  harmony  ushered  in  the  day, 
And  yet  my  spirit  would  not  be  at  peace, 

Sensing  demonic  echoes  far  away, 

Mad  murmurs  of  red  conflict  without  cease — 

The  interminable  roar  of  black-mouthed  guns 
Where  brave  men  faced  the  onset  of  the  Huns. 


[38] 


THOSE  WHO  RETURN 

THOSE  who  return  from  scarred  and  stricken  places, 

Our  men  of  valor,  will  they  seem  the  same, 
Or  will  they  wear  on  their  beloved  faces 

Something  inscrutable  we  may  not  name? 

•, 

Will  they  take  up  their  duties  and  their  pleasures 
With  aims  and  ardors  that  they  knew  of  old, 

Or  will  they  weigh  all  life  with  newer  measures, 
And  view  the  past  as  one  a  tale  long  told  ? 

They  who  have  looked  into  the  eyes  of  dangers 
Unsensed  by  us,  and  which  we  may  not  feel, 

Will  they  not  sometimes  be  to  us  as  strangers, 
Holding  at  heart  what  they  may  not  reveal? 

Unchanged,  yet  changed  in  this — that  they  have  been 
So  near  the  veil  that  hides  the  Great  Unseen ! 


[39] 


MEMORIES 

I  HAVE  a  memory  of  dim  twilights  gone 
And  the  lulled  sense  of  indolent  repose, 

With  lilac  lights  close  round  about  me  drawn, 
And  the  pervasive  attar  of  the  rose. 

I  have  a  memory  of  the  hermit  thrush 

From  some  sequestered  woodland  covert  far 

Poignantly  stirring  the  cool  evening  hush 
With  its  clear  anthem  to  the  vesper  star. 

These  things  once  touched  my  sense  of  loveliness 
And  made  within  my  mind  a  harmony ; 

But  now  they  fail;  who  could  be  passionless 
At  the  great  tidings  borne  from  over  sea! 

In  this  triumphant  hour,  this  hour  supreme, 
All  also  seems  futile,  futile  as  a  dream ! 

1918. 


[40] 


IMMORTALS 

BEYOND  the  lifted  barrage 
He'd  almost  gained  his  goal, 

When  on  far  ways  eternal 
Went  out  his  soldier  soul. 

They  found  in  his  blouse  pocket 
These  words,  writ  clear  to  see, 

"I  shall  fight  on  as  though  all 
Depended   upon  me!" 

But  now  he  has  adventured 
Beyond  the  utmost  star; 

His  is  that  distant  dwelling 
Where  all  dead  heroes  are. 

Mayhap  he  looks  on  Bayard, 
Marks  Roland  near  him  stand; 

Beholds  the  smile  of  Sidney, 
And  clasps  him  by  the  hand. 

For  valor  calls  to  valor 

Across  time's  furthest  span; 

He  is  immortal  with  them, 
This  young  American ! 
[41] 


THE  UNRETURNING 

FOR  us,  the  dead,  though  young, 
For  us,  who  fought  and  bled, 

Let  a  last  song  be  sung, 
And  a  last  word  be  said ! 

Dreams,  hopes  and  high  desires, 
That  leaven  and  uplift, 

On  sacrificial  fires 
We  offered  as  a  gift. 

We  gave,  and  gave  our  all, 
In  gladness,  though  in  pain; 

Let  not  a  whisper  fall 
That  we  have  died  in  vain ! 


[42] 


FRANCE 


THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  RHEIMS 

BEHOLD  the  ruin  of  the  shrine  of  Rheims 

That   War   had    spared   throughout   six   hundred 
years ! 

For  Beauty  shattered,  and  Art's  loveliest  dreams, 
Ah,  shall  there  not  be  sorrowing  and  tears  ? 

And  shall  there  not  be  execration  too, 

Or  is  that  word  too  tolerant  to  tell 
The  eternal  obloquy  which  is  the  due 

Of  those  that  wrought  the  wrong  irreparable! 

Strange  is  the  healing  of  the  hand  of  Time, 

One  of  our  life's  evasive  mysteries; 
The  ages  may  atone  for  many  a  crime, 

Forgetfulness  dim  the  memory — but  not  this ! 

Never  hereafter,  at  the  daylight's  close, 
"With  hues  more  radiant  than  the  sunset  sky, 

Shall  the  clerestory's  blazing  red  and  rose 
Uplift  the  soul  in  silent  ecstasy. 

Never  again  the  gentle  angel's  face 

Look  down  in  all  its  blest  beatitude ; 
Nor  the  grave  saints,  in  dignity  and  grace, 

Gaze  from  the  portals  in  benignant  mood. 
[45] 


Thus  let  it  stand !  'Twere  futile  to  restore 
Lost  Beauty,  by  despoiling  hands  undone; 

Thus  let  it  stand,  aye,  stand  forevermore, 
Symbolic  of  the  kultur  of  the  Hun ! 


[46] 


HERE  PASSED  THE  HUN 

HERE  passed  the  Hun  !     Not  in  the  long  ago 

A  path  more  pitiless  of  scath  and  woe 

Blazed  Attila  beneath  the  noonday  sun 

Than  may  be  seen  to-day  where  passed  the  Hun ! 

Here  passed  the  Hun  where  the  rose-window  gleamed 
Of  stately  Rheims,  and  saints  in  marble  dreamed ; 
Where  scholarly  Louvain  dozed  'mid  its  limes, 
And  Termonde  bells  rang  rhythmic  vesper  chimes ! 

Here  passed  the  Hun  through  peaceful  Picardy, 
Spreading  his  wake  of  wanton  misery 
Where  Noyon  walls  are  toppled  stone  from  stone, 
And  Coucy-le-Chateau  lies  overthrown! 

! 

Here  passed  the  Hun,  and  left  but  death  and  dearth 
Where  once  was  life  and  plenty  and  blithe  mirth ; 
Here  passed  the  Hun,  and  wreaked  his  ruthless  wrong 

Where  once  were  women 's  smiles  and  children 's  song ! 

\ 

Here  passed  the  Hun !     His  cruelty  and  crime 
Are  written  large  upon  the  Book  of  Time. 
Till  Time  shall  cease  still  will  the  legend  run 
In  those  fair  ravished  lands — Here  passed  the  Hun! 

[47] 


THE  COCK  OF  TILLOLOY 

The  Daughters  of  the  American  Revolution  will,  after  the 
war,  rebuild  the  village  of  Tilloloy. — The  Matin. 

FOR  years  unknown  the  Cock  of  Tilloloy, 
Of  ancient  Tilloloy  in  Picardy, 

Stood  stanch  on  guard  upon  the  old  church  tower, 
Whirled  with  the  whirling  winds,  and,  many  deemed, 
Sounded  a  shrill  reveille  when  the  morn 
Flowered  in  the  east  like  an  aerial  rose. 
After  a  thousand  thousand  rains  and  snows 
Had  beaten  on  it,  sanguine  battle  came 
And  smote  the  rod  which  held  it.     Down  it  fell, 
Clashing  and  clanging  on  the  lichened  tiles, 
And  thence  to  earth.     In  the  diaphanous  dusk 
Of  early  June,  what  time  it  poised  and  plunged, 
A  Poilu,  wandering  in  the  dim  church  close, 
Saw  the  descending  vane  and  caught  it  up, 
The  ancient  iron  Cock  of  Tilloloy. 
Somehow  it  seemed  a  symbol  and  a  sign, 
And  so  he  bore  it  with  him.     At  Yerdun, 
And  too  upon  that  red  intrenched  line 
Along  the  Somme,  it  crowned  the  barrier, 
And  'twas  as  though  it  crowed  the  clarion  call 
To  victory,  though  the  shrapnel  clipped  its  comb 
And  rent  its  slender  body.     The  Poilu, 

[48] 


Fain  of  his  furlough  after  days  that  reeked 
With  shock  and  slaughter,  took  the  battered  Cock, 
The  ancient  iron  Cock  of  Tilloloy, 
And  hid  it. 

Now  that  kindly  hearts  and  hands, 
Hearts  wherein  burn  the  flame  of  love  for  France, 
Are  to  remould  and  fashion  wall  and  tower, 
Again  upon  the  crest  the  valiant  vane, 
Unvanquished  by  the  onset  of  the  Huns, 
In  reverence  raised  from  its  safe  hiding  place, 
Will  greet  the  morning  as  in  elder  time 
When  winds  of  Peace  blew  over  Tilloloy. 
Such  is  our  dream — and  may  the  dream  come  true! 


[49] 


POPPIES  IN  FRANCE 

I  CAN  recall  when  summer  hazed 
The  sky,  and  all  seemed  in  a  trance, 

How  the  bright  poppies  burned  and  blazed 
Across  the  rolling  fields  of  France. 

They  made  a  glory  of  Champaigne, 
Wave  after  wave  of  harmony; 

They  spread  a  cloth  of  crimson  stain 
On  many  a  field  in  Picardy. 

Again  the  poppy  blooms  are  fair 
Beneath  the  summer's  haze-hung  sky, 

But  now  (0  poignant  sorrow!)  there 
Than  theirs  behold  a  deeper  dye ! 


[50] 


THE  PATH  OF  THE  HUN 

ONLY  a  ravaged  garth 
Where  the  grass  runs  wild, 

And  an  old  bent  woman  there 
With  a  little  child. 

Only  a  shattered  tower 

Bereft  of  its  bells, 
Where,  with  its  sealed  lips, 

Gray  silence  dwells. 

Only  a  fresh-heaped  mound 
With  its  grim  pathos, 

And  a  tilted  soldier's  cap 
On  a  wooden  cross. 

Only  the  creeping  wind 
And  the  shrouded  sun ; 

Only  the  pale  gloom ; — this 
Was  the  path  of  Hun! 


[51] 


HENRY  OF  NAVARRE 

Now  that  the  clouds  of  battle  loom 
Above  the  fair  French  fields  in  bloom 

Along  the  front  of  War, 
Come,  spirit  of  the  spotless  plume, 

Brave  Henry  of  Navarre! 

Against  the  serried  lines  arrayed, 
Your  valiant  kinsmen  need  your  aid ; 

Let,  like  a  flashing  star, 
Gleam  once  again  your  fearless  blade, 

Brave  Henry  of  Navarre! 

From  realms  remote  we  may  not  see, 
Lest  lost  be  light  and  Liberty, 

Return,  where'er  you  are, 
Return,  and  lead  to  victory, 

Brave  Henry  of  Navarre ! 


[52] 


IN  PICARDY 

IN  Picardy,  in  Picardy, 

If  I  dare  look  mine  eyes  must  see 

A  nameless  horror  now; 
And  yet  a  bird  with  folded  wings 
Within  a  treetop  sings  and  sings 

Upon  a  blackened  bough. 

It  sings  and  sings,  with  folded  wings, 
Of  coming  springs,  of  happier  springs, 

That  shall  be  not  as  now, 
"When  life  and  love  again  shall  be 
In  Picardy,  in  Picardy, 

Beneath  the  leafy  bough! 


[53] 


ITALY 


TO  ITALY 

WE  who  have  loved  you  long  and  loved  you  well, 

Symbol  of  Beauty,  prototype  of  Art, 

Treasuring  within  the  holies  of  your  heart 
Forevermore  the  ancient  sibyl  spell, 
Would  fain  acclaim  you,  hail  you,  fain  would  dwell 

Upon  your  lofty  and  heroic  part 

'Gainst  those  dark  powers  that  aim  to  change  the 

chart 
Of  all  the  world,  with  force  intolerable ! 

Now  in  your  hour  of  bitterness  and  need 

Our  hopes  and  prayers  are  with  you.     May  the  old 

Spirit  of  Roman  valor  stir  your  lines 
Firmly  against  the  Vandal  hordes  to  hold, 
While  to  your  aid  the  spectral  legions  speed 

North  with  the  wind  across  the  Apennines ! 


[57] 


HIGH  NOON  AT  SALO 

OVER  the  roofs  of  Salo  the  high  noon, 
And  all  the  air  aswoon, 
The  amber  air  that  ripens  the  round  grapes 
Within  Lake  Garda's  coves  and  on  its  capes. 
The  gossips  drowsy;  in  the  little  square 
Where  the  facade  of  Santa  Maria  towers, 
And  where  its  bells  mark  off  the  gliding  hours, 
A  group  of  lads  in  frolic; — sun-brown  hair, 
And  sun-brown  faces,  limbs,  and  sun-brown  feet, 
And  laughing  lips  without  a  hint  of  care ; 
Then  I,  a  wanderer,  strolling  up  the  street, 
And  chancing  on  them  there. 
One  youth,  the  one  most  fleet, 
Pounces  upon  me,  clutches  at  my  coat. 
"Signore,  come!     Signore,  come!"  he  cries, 
An  eager  light  within  his  up-raised  eyes, 
Eyes  like  deep  purple  shades  when  daylight  dies, 
* '  Come,  and  see  Santa  Maria ! '  * 

Who  could  say 

To  this  persuasive  cicerone,  ' '  Nay ! ' ' 
And  mar  the  liquid  note 
Of  his  entreatment?     So  he  led  the  way, 

[58] 


Lifting  the  leathern  curtain  at  the  door 

With  all  the  sylvan  grace  of  a  young  faun. 

Gone,  on  a  sudden,  the  day's  radiance,  gone 

The  heaviness  of  heat; 

Within  was  twilight,  faint  and  cool  and  sweet, 

And  a  great  silence  wherethrough,  presently, 

Broke  a  clear  voice,  the  lad's.     It  seemed  to  me 

As  mellow  as  an  organ;  yea,  it  grew 

As  rapture  does  in  music  from  the  thin 

And  mounting  treble  of  the  violin 

(That  had  its  birth  in  Salo)  to  the  deep 

Reverent  prof  undo  of  a  cello  chord; 

He  knew  each  shrine  and  altar,  and  he  knew 

Every  madonna  draped  in  lovely  hue 

(The  Divine  Shepherd  caring  for  His  sheep), 

And  every  saint  that  worshipped  the  young  Lord. 

At  last  we  passed  again  into  the  light, 

The  quiet  old  piazza,  dazzling  bright; 

And  with  obeisance  suave 

For  what  I  gave, 

" Addio! — grazie! — grazie!"  said  he, 

Shyly  and  smilingly. 

Since  then,  that  noon  in  Salo,  the  fleet  years 

Have  slipt,  on  swallow  flight, 

Into  the  past's  inevitable  night, 

But  still  upon  mine  ears 

Falls  the  boy's  golden  voice; 

Still  can  I  see  his  face, 

[59] 


With  all  its  glamour  and  with  all  its  grace, 
And  well  I  know  that  he  has  made  his  choice. 
Somewhere  on  the  Piave  line  his  cries 
In  exultation  rise — 

"Viva  Italia!"    Such  souls  as  he 
In  the  red  stress  of  conflict  do  not  fail; 
And  though  he  kiss  the  Grail, 
His  sacrifice  will  be 

For  freedom,  and  so  here  I  bid  him  hail ; 
Hail  unto  him,  and  hail  to  Italy ! 


[60] 


THE  GARDEN 

How  fair  the  garden  in  the  mid-day  glow, 
With  all  its  smoothly  swarded  terraces, 

Down  sloping  to  the  placid  pool  below, 
Dotted  with  lilies,  girt  with  aspen  trees ! 

'Tis  like  a  memory  out  of  Italy, 

For  there  are  marbles  wreathed  with  ivy  there, — 
Pan  with  his  goat  hoofs,  mouth  awry  with  glee, 

And  Daphne  with  the  laurel  in  her  hair. 

And  over  all  a  sky  that  wears  the  blue 

And  gold  of  skies  that  arch  the  Apennines, 

And  a  light  breeze  that  lingeringly  steals  through 
Like  that  which  stirs  the  tops  of  Eoman  pines. 

Yet  what  a  contrast! — Here  no  threat  awaits, 
While  Italy  has  the  Hun  within  her  gates. 


[61] 


THE  HUNS  AT  PADUA 

IN  days  still  vivid  and  golden  I  recall 
How  twilight  shadows  fell  on  dome  and  wall 

In  Padua.     How  San  Andrea's  chimes 
Floated  above  the  rooftops,  and  how  all 

Was  peace  and  beauty.     Through  the  o'erhanging 

limes 

Girdling  the  Prato  fleeting  laughter  stirred 
From  wandering  lovers  and  from  bough  and  bird. 

Brighter  the  lights  in  vast  II  Santo 's  aisles 

Shone  in  the  deepening  gloaming,  and  the  crowd, 
Passing  from  worship  through  the  long  arcades, 

Chattered  as  children  chatter,  gay  with  smiles, 
Drawn  by  clear  strains  that  echoed  low  or  loud 

From  the  bedecked  Piazza  of  Cavour, 
For  here  when  droop  the  violet  evening  shades 

Music  ascends  with  all  its  lovely  lure. 

How  magical  it  seemed! — how  magic  yet 
The  tall  towered  city  in  its  gardens  set, 
Wrapt  round  about  with  olden  memories 
Thick  as  the  vines  that  clothe  its  mulberry  trees; 
The  house  where  Dante  dwelt  through  hours  of  gloom, 
Whose  narrow  windows  look  upon  the  tomb 
Of  Antenor ;  the  grassed  Arena  space  j 
[62] 


The  Loggia's  inimitable  grace; 
The  wondrous  statue  Donatello  wrought, 
And  the  adoring  mediaeval  thought 
Perpetuate  upon  canvas — virgin,  saint, 
Such  as  the  hand  of  Titian  loved  to  paint, 
Such  as  Bellini  and  Mantegna  limned, 
By  the  erasing  centuries  undimmed. 

Long,  long  aforetime  underneath  the  yoke 
Of  one  whose  name  is  linked  with  cruelty, 

In  woe  and  terror  lived  the  Paduan  folk, 
And  Ezzelino,  called  "the  Devil,"  he! 

Search  history's  page  and  you  will  find  than  his 

No  darker,  bloodier  atrocities; 

Shuddering  along  the  streets  the  people  trod, 

Calling  in  vain  upon  the  aid  of  God; 

In  vain? — but  nay!     One  heard  them  as  they  cried. 

The  Fiend  was  driven  forth.     By  Brenta's  side, 

Bound  to  a  stake,  he  gnawed  his  wounds  and  died. 

In  Paduan  ways  do  they  not  think  once  more 
His  spirit  comes  from  the  abyss  of  night, 
Clad  in  the  Hun's  habiliments  of  fright, 
Bearing  a  newer  horror,  and,  as  of  yore, 
From  this  satanic  thing  do  they  not  pray 
For  swift  release,  for  retribution?     Yea! 
And  we  would  cry  with  them — "God  speed  the  day!" 

[63] 


ITALY  TRIUMPHANT 

0  I  CAN  see  how  the  beacons  burned 

On  the  hills  of  Italy; 
How  the  news  was  told  in  flames  of  gold 

That  the  land  from  the  foe  was  free ! 
How  the  joy-light  leaped  from  peak  to  peak 

Away  and  yet  away 
From  the  snowy  heights  of  the  Dolomites 

To  far  Tarentum  bay. 

And  I  can  hear  how  cheer  on  cheer 

"Went  up  from  that  stately  square 
Where  fair  Milan's  cathedral  towers 

Like  flowers  lift  up  in  air; 
The  triumph  notes  from  exultant  throats 

In  Florence  I  can  divine, 
And  how  the  shouts  from  the  Corso  swept 

To  the  crest  of  the  Palatine. 

Ah,  never  again  on  plateau  or  plain 

The  Austrian  and  the  Hun! 
Untroubled  now  to  seek  the  main 

Piave's  waters  run; 
From  a  galling  yoke  a  gallant  folk 

Redeemed  and  glad  and  free, 
With  queenly  Venice  looking  out 

Across  her  sunrise  sea! 
[64] 


OF  FRANCESCO  MARIO  GUARDABASSI 

IN  the  olden  days  and  spacious, 
We  have  read  how  brave  Horatius 
Held  a  bridge-head  of  the  Tiber  when  the  Etruscans 

threatened  Rome; 
Hear  how  Captain  Guardabassi, 
Tall  and  muscular  and  massy, 

Held  the  bridge  at  Latisana  from  the  dawning  to  the 
gloam. 

When  his  countrymen  were  driven 

From  the  Carso,  rent  and  riven, 
Back  upon  the  Tagliamento,  rose  amid  the  ranks  a 
shout ; 

Swelled  like  hiving  bees  a-humming, — 

" Austrian  cavalry  are  coming!" 
There  was  peril  of  a  panic ;  there  was  danger  of  a  rout. 

Then  the  gallant  grenadier,  he 
A  Perugian  stanch  and  cheery, 
Faced  the  streaming  troops  that  jostled  at  the  tidings 

they  had  heard ; 

"Hold!"  he  cried;  "and  hark  to  reason! 
There  is  treachery ;  there  is  treason ; 
For  the  Austrians  are  not  coming ! ' '  and  they  halted 
at  his  word. 

[65] 


Then  with  other  souls  undaunted, 
How  he  flouted,  how  he  flaunted 
At  the  faltering  and  fearsome,  with  his  scornful  eyes 

ashine ! 

How  he  stood  and  stemmed  and  stormed  them 
Till  he  rallied  and  reformed  them, 
And  they  marched  in  steady  columns  to  the  safe  Piave. 
line! 

So,  0  masterful  Mario, 
Ere  we  say  to  you  addio, 
Take  the  guerdon  of  these  plaudits  wheresoever  you 

may  be ! 

Your  indomitable  deed  there, 
In  the  vital  hour  of  need  there, 
Shows  the  stirring  verve  and  valor  in  the  heart  of 
Italy. 

October,  1917. 


[66] 


SAINT  ANTHONY  OF  PADUA 

I  HAD  a  vision  of  Saint  Anthony 

At  hush  of  midnight  rising  from  his  tomb 
In  domed  II  Santo  where,  amid  the  gloom, 

The  tapers  wavered  faint  and  fitfully. 

Not  in  his  saintly  raiment  robed  was  he, 

But  bright  in  burnished  mail  and  knightly  plume, 
Like  some  old  warrior  daring  the  dark  doom 

Of  death,  with  face  set  toward  eternity. 

A  spectral  steed  awaited  at  the  door; 

Swiftly  he  mounted  and  as  swiftly  whirled 

Out  of  the  Paduan  gates  across  the  plain. 
The  soldiers  heard  the  burning  words  he  bore 

In   dreams,   and,   wakening,   back  the   Huns   they 

hurled 
Where  the  Piave  murmurs  toward  the  main. 


[67] 


PALESTINE 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 

IN  the  dusk  of  the  vanished  ages  we  read  how  it  came 

to  pass 
That  a  man  called  Peter  the  Hermit  rode  through 

France  on  an  ass, 

Preaching  to  Princes  and  people  from  the  dawn  to  the 

even  gloam 
The  word  of  Heaven  as  spoken  by  the  lips  of  the  Pope 

of  Home. 

"God  commands!"  and  the  edict  was  met  as  with  one 

accord ; 
"We  must  save  the  Holy  City  from  the  grip  of  the  foes 

of  the  Lord!" 

Pilgrim   and  palmer  heard  it,   and   potentates   and 

Kings 
Rose  up  and  gathered  about  them  their  feudal  follow- 

ings; 

Then  they  marched  by  the  land  in  legions,  and  they 

sailed  in  hosts  by  the  sea, 
Godfrey  and  Baldwin  and  Tancred,  and  Robert  of 

Normandy. 

[71] 


While  many  drooped  by  the  wayside,  and  knights  and 

their  squires  were  slain, 
The  Cross  still  urged  them  onward  as  they  saw  the 

Crescent  wane, 

Till  at  last  pealed  the  triumph  trumpet,  the  day  of 

their  victory  came, 
When  they  hewed  through  lanes  of  slaughter  to  the 

church  of  the  Holy  Name. 

Red  were  the  years  thereafter,  as  red  as  the  crimson 

fire 
Flushing  the  sunset  surges  that  break  on  the  reefs  of 

Tyre. 

Ever  and  ever  the  onset,  ever  the  sanguine  shock 
Rocking  the  plains  of  Acre,  shattering  Antioch! 

Saladin  bearing  the  Crescent,  master  of  warlike  art ; 
Holding   the    Cross   before   him,   Richard   the   Lion 
Heart ! 

Shaken  the  walls  of  Zion,  the  spot  that  was  Judah's 

crown, 
While  drowned  in  the  blinding  welter  the  staff  of  the 

Cross  went  down — 

Down,  and  the  paynim  banner  hung  until  yester-hour 
Sinister  in  the  sunlight  over  the  Zion  tower. 

[72] 


Vain  were  the  sacrifices  made  in  the  days  long  gone, 
The  rout  on  the  heights  of  Hattin,  the  press  at  Asca- 
lon; 

But  now  where  the  solemn  cypress  guards  sad  Geth- 

semane, 
And  over  the  Mount  of  Olives  silvers  the  olive  tree, 

Forever  and  forever,  aye,  until  Time  shall  cease, 
Over  the  walls  of  Zion  may  there  descend  His  peace ! 

Not  vain  be  the  sacrifices  that  man  to-day  has  made ; 
May  this,  when  the  Right  shall  conquer,  may  this  be 
the  Last  Crusade! 


[73] 


JERICHO 

Down — down — fell  the  walls  of  Jericho, 
Walls  they  said  that  would  not  crumble, 
Walls  they  said  no  hand  could  humble; 

0  the  mighty  overthrow! 

Out  of  the  Gilgal  brake 

One,  with  a  flaming  sword, 

Unto  Joshua  spake, 

And  this  was  the  word : — 

"I  am  with  thee  in  thy  need, 

Give  thee  good  heed — good  heed!" 

Then  He  of  the  flaming  sword 

Told  Joshua  what  should  be 

If  over  the  heathen  horde 

He  would  win  the  mastery. 

Tall  was  Jericho 's  wall, 
Cubit  on  cubit  high, 
A  menace  to  appall 
Looming  against  the  sky. 
But  with  never  a  sound 
Save  for  the  rams '  horns  blown 
(Seven  rams'  horns  blown), 
[74] 


Round  and  round  and  round 
The  battlements  of  stone 
The  hosts  of  Israel  trod 
Under  the  eye  of  God. 

Peered  the  men  on  the  wall, 

Jeered  the  men  on  the  wall; 

With  loud  idolatrous  curses 

They  bade  the  hosts  to  quail, 

Consigning  them  to  the  mercies 

Of  Moloch  and  of  Baal ; 

Yet  they  still  marched  round  and  round 

In  time  to  the  rams'  horns'  sound. 

Until,  on  the  seventh  day 

(Seven  spans  round  and  round), 

A  shattering  cry 

Went  up  to  the  sky 

From  the  lips  of  that  vast  array, 

Drowning  the  rams'  horns'  sound. 

And  down — down — down — 

Down  to  the  very  ground 

Plunged  Jericho 's  mighty  wall ; 

0  the  thunderous  fall, 

And  death  to  the  toppled  town! 

Lend  ear !     Give  us  to  hear 
To-day  some  word  of  the  Lord ! 
Is  there  no  flaming  sword, 
[75] 


No  leader  to  point  the  way? 

See  where,  with  embattled  bands, 

Our  enemy,  Jericho,  stands, 

Not  cubits  high  but  wide, 

In  all  its  arrogant  pride ! 

God,  grant  to  us  this  boon: — 

Send  Thou  unto  us  soon, 

To  ward  from  the  threat  and  fear, 

Another  Joshua! 

March,  1918. 


[76] 


A  SYRIAN  SCENE 

UPON  Esdraelon's  plain  the  anemones  shimmer 

Like  sunset  waves  beneath  the  wind's  warm  breath ; 

Above,  fair-girt  by  silvery  olives,  glimmer 

The  bright  white  walls  and  roofs  of  Nazareth. 

Nothing  to  mar  the  quietude ;  unbroken 
The  silence  by  a  sign  of  strife  or  stress; 

peace — brooding  peace  transcending  all ;  no  token 
Of  aught  save  beauty,  aught  save  loveliness ! 

The  loveliness  of  earth  and  sky  o'erleaning — 
Of  life  that  lapses  with  no  dream  of  death; 

Would  the  torn  world  might  take  to  heart  the  mean 
ing 
Of  calm  Esdraelon— and  of  Nazareth ! 


[77] 


RIDING  WITH  ALLENBY 

As  I  dream,  it  seems  to  me 
I  have  ridden  with  Alleriby. 

On  a  day,  in  the  time  long  gone, 
I  rode  into  the  heart  of  the  dawn 
Out  of  Gaza.     My  desert  steed, 
Son  of  a  sire  of  the  Nedjid  breed, 
Took  the  breath  of  the  morning  sun 
With  never  a  pause  till  we  had  won 
0  'er  rocky  steep  and  o  'er  sandy  swell 
To  the  riven  House  of  Gabriel. 
Then,  ere  the  shut  of  the  eve,  we  came 
Where  the  last  red  streamers  lit  with  flame 
The  mosque  of  Hebron  set  in  the  vale, 
With  its  towering  minarets,  and  its  tale 
Of  Isaac's  and  of  Abraham's  tomb, 
Where  only  the  Faithful  in  the  gloom, 
By  the  flickering  cressets  flecked,  may  fare 
When  the  swart  muezzin  calls  to  prayer. 
Thence  on  to  Bethlehem  we  sped, 
With  the  dome  of  Allah  overhead, 
And  not  a  shred  of  a  cloud  in  view 
To  blur  the  breadth  of  its  gold  and  blue. 

[78] 


So  he  marched,  and  it  seems  to  me 
I  have  ridden  with  Allenby! 

Then  Jerusalem,  and  the  Hill 

Of  Golgotha,  and  the  sacred,  still 

Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre ! 

The  Vale  and  the  Mount,  and  the  ceaseless  stir 

Of  pilgrim  feet  where  the  Christ  once  strayed, 

Under  the  cruel  cross  down  weighed ! 

I  rode  by  Jenin  with  its  palms 

Clear  cut  against  the  noonday  calms. 

I  rode  by  Nablous,  I  rode  by  Nain, 

And  over  the  wide  Esdraelon  plain 

Up  the  slopes  to  Nazareth, 

Where  out  of  the  dim  bazaars  the  breath 

Of  the  shaven  sandalwood  was  blown. 

I  skirted  the  snow-crowned  mountain  zone 

Of  Hermon,  and  saw  the  morning  star 

Silver  the  huts  of  Kerf  Hawar; 

And  then  I  looked  on  the  lovely  loom 

Of  orange,  pomegranate  and  citron  bloom 

(A  bower  that  to  the  Prophet's  eyes 

Was  a  prescience  of  Paradise), 

And  entered  Damascus  as  the  sun 

Peered  over  the  brow  of  Lebanon. 


[79] 


So  he  marched,  and  it  seems  to  me 
I  have  ridden  with  Allenby! 

Never  again  the  Turkish  blight 

On  all  this  land  of  lure  and  light ! 

Never  again  the  Turkish  ban 

From  far  Beersheba  unto  Dan — 

This  home  of  holy  memories ! 

Rather  the  beam  of  His  promised  peace, 

His  peace  for  all  men  under  the  sun 

From  Nebo  north  to  Lebanon, 

His  peace  through  the  hand  that  set  them  free!- 

I  have  ridden  with  Allenby! 


[80] 


MISCELLANEOUS 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  HAWK 

(HAPSBURG) 

THE  House  of  the  Hawk  was  hung 

High  on  a  barren  crag, 
And  out  from  its  eyrie  flung 

The  folds  of  a  taloned  flag. 
Bloody  was  its  brood 

In  that  fateful  feudal  day, 
And  rood  upon  fertile  rood 

It  gripped  as  its  hapless  prey. 

The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  slow, 
Thus  saith  the  ancient  song; 

But  for  the  high  and  the  low 
The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  long. 

The  House  of  the  Hawk  reached  out, 

Ever  reached  out  afar; 
It  battened  on  ruin  and  rout, 

It  fattened  on  fields  of  war; 
It  fastened  its  clutching  claws 

Upon  Italy  and  Spain, 
And  the  heart  of  it  knew  no  laws 

Save  the  ruthless  laws  of  gain. 
[83] 


But  the  mills  of  the  gods  grind  on, 

Until,  or  soon  or  late, 
In  the  dusk,  or  at  some  red  dawn, 

There  falls  the  sword  of  Fate. 

The  House  of  the  Hawk — behold 

How  it  lies  for  the  world  to  see! 
The  final  hour  has  tolled 

Of  the  clock  of  destiny. 
Cruelty,  arrogance,  pride, 

Scepter  and  king  and  crown, 
Swept  by  a  mighty  tide 

The  House  of  the  Hawk  goes  down ! 

What  of  its  vaunted  power  f 
What  of  its  ancient  line  f — 

Lo,  at  the  ultimate  hour 

The  mills  of  the  gods  grind  fine! 


[8*] 


THE  ARMENIANS 

I  HEARD  the  Armenians  speak, 
Tortured,  enslaved  and  weak; 

Heard  down  the  wind  their  wailing  and  their  sighing ; 
"From  the  most  monstrous  wrong 
Borne  by  us  ages  long 
Save  us,  a  nation  dying! 

1 '  In  fire,  in  blood,  in  shame, 

The  inscrutable  years  proclaim 
Our  wretched  fate;  hark  to  our  voices  crying 
For  liberty  at  last! 
From  horrors  like  the  past 
Save  us,  a  nation  dying ! 

"You  that  are  strong  and  free 

As  the  unfettered  sea, 

List  to  our  plea !  we  yearn  for  your  replying ; 
In  this  your  triumph  hour, 
With  your  embattled  power 
Save  us,  a  nation  dying! 

"Smite  off  the  intolerable 

Chains  of  the  hordes  of  Hell 
Forevermore!     Not  vain  be  our  relying 
On  mercy,  justice,  right! 
From  the  dread  thralls  of  Might 
Save  us,  a  nation  dying !" 
[85] 


HEINE 

IN  time  that  now  is  but  a  dream, 

Upon  a  far  off  morn, 
A  swift  immortal  soul  of  song 

At  Diisseldorf  was  born. 

Within  him  glowed  the  flaming  light 

That  bids  mankind  be  free ; 
Within  him  burned  the  bitter  scorn 

Of  kingly  tyranny. 

The  ruthless  power  that  bides  in  thrones 

Cast  out  this  spirit  brave, 
And  he,  an  exile,  dwelt  and  died 

Upon  his  "mattress  grave." 

Ah,  Heine,  from  some  unknown  bourn 

It  were  not  ours  to  blame 
Shouldst  thou  come  back  to  execrate 

The  Hohenzollern  name! 

Lest  a  black  legacy  of  hate 

Perpetuate  should  be, 
A  fearless  poignant  pen  like  thine 

Must  make  thy  people  see ! 
[86] 


GEEMANIA 

MEDUSA  of  the  nations,  see  her  stand 
Implacable,  detestate,  treacherous,  base, 
Without  a  scruple,  and  without  a  trace 

Of  honor,  a  sword  within  her  murderous  hand ! 

Secret  and  subtle,  now  with  smilings  bland 
Wreathing  the  sleek  insidiousness  of  her  face, 
Assassin  and  despoiler  of  the  race 

That,  saith  the  Word,  the  Eternal  Master  planned ! 

Shall  she  debauch  the  world  with  her  foul  creed 
Of  Might  transcendent,  frightfulness  supreme, 

Her  god  a  god  as  brutal  as  was  Baal? 
0  might  we  rouse  from  out  this  hideous  dream 
To  see  some  Power  omnipotent,  at  our  need, 

Smiting  this  monster  till  she  cringe  and  quail ! 


[87] 


I  PASSED  FROM  DEEAM  TO  DREAM 

I  PASSED  from  dream  to  dream  until  I  came 

Unto  the  portal  of  a  lofty  hall ; 

Within  arch  rose  on  arch  majestical 
Whereon  was  graven  many  a  noble  name 
Wide-blown  upon  the  trumpet  lips  of  fame; 

And  there  were  stately  arms  memorial 

'Mid  flaunting  banners  hung  upon  the  wall ; 
Methought  it  was  a  place  where  bode  no  shame. 

Upon  a  dais,  clad  in  robes  of  state, 

Was  one  stern-browed,  inscrutable  as  fate, 

Scanning  a  writing  by  a  golden  taper; 
I  read :  it  seemed  a  compact  of  much  weight. 
* '  What  meaneth  this  ? "  I  asked  of  him  who  sate ; 

"Pooh!"  he  replied,  "  'tis  ~but  a  scrap  of  paper!" 


[88] 


THE  CONQUERORS 

I  SING  the  world 's  great  conquerors  since  the  hour 

When  there  were  vaunting  kings  in  Nineveh, 
And  the  proud  Pharaohs  held  imperious  power 

Where  Nilus  rolls  upon  its  ancient  way; 

Since  the  dark  night  of  Babylon 's  dismay ; 
Since  Xerxes  down  upon  the  Grecians  bore. 

Slaves  to  their  mad  ambitions,  where  are  they  ? 
Lo,  they  have  passed,  and  will  return  no  more ! 

I  sing  the  world's  great  conquerors — the  flower 

Of  Macedonian  monarchs,  and  the  sway 
Of  Hannibal,  who  caused  tall  Rome  to  cower; 

Cassar,  with  legions  ranged  in  long  array ; 

The  grisly  Attila,  who  made  his  prey 
Renowned  cities,  many  a  fateful  score. 

Slaves  to  their  mad  ambitions,  where  are  thy  ? 
Lo,  they  have  passed,  and  will  return  no  more ! 

I  sing  the  world's  great  conquerors — the  dower 

That  Timur  won  through  fray  on  bloody  fray ; 
How  Genghis  Khan  was  in  his  time  a  tower 

Of  dreaded  might,  nor  spared  his  hand  to  slay ; 

The  Man  of  Destiny,  who  pined  away, 
An  exile  upon  Saint  Helena 's  shore. 

Slaves  to  their  mad  ambitions,  where  are  they? 
Lo,  they  have  passed,  and  will  return  no  more ! 
[89] 


Envoy 

And  you  toward  whom  Fate  hastens  day  by  day, 
Kaiser  and  King,  whom  we  despise,  deplore, 

Slave  to  your  mad  ambition,  e'en  as  they, 
You  too  shall  pass,  and  will  return  no  more ! 


[90] 


THE  EARTH  CALL 

FAINT  and  far  at  first  I  heard  it  from  the  spaces  of 

the  dark, 
When  the  host  of  stars  assembled  in  the  midnight's 

mighty  arc; 
Then  it  mounted  with  the  morning,  stirred  my  mind 

and  bade  me  hark. 

And  I  knew  it  for  the  Earth-call  from  the  vital  source 

of  things, 

A  reveille  to  awaken  to  the  hills  and  vales  and  springs, 
And  it  throbbed  and  grew  in  volume  like  the  rushing 

of  great  wings. 

And  its  word  was  to  the  cornlands,  and  its  word  was 

to  the  wheat; 
There  was  warning  in  its  message,  there  was  tremor 

in  its  beat ; — 
"See,  the  children  of  men  suffer,  and  there  must  be 

bread  to  eat! 

' '  For  the  air  is  filled  with  rumors,  for  the  air  is  dark 

with  dread, 
Where  behind  War's  bloody  footsteps  lie  the  windrows 

of  the  dead ; 
And,  lest  rise  a  ghastlier  terror,  those  still  living  must 

be  fed. 

[91] 


* '  Here,  on  fields  unscarred,  untrampled,  must  the  fer 
tile  seed  be  sown; 

Here,  in  generous  abundance  must  the  harvest  yield 
be  grown;  • 

Here  must  be  a  vaster  reaping  than  the  land  has  ever 
known. 

''Hence  the  Earth-call  of  the  Mother  to  the  loam  and 

to  the  clod, 
To  the  tillers  and  the  toilers  lest  Death  smite  with 

deadlier  rod; 
Hence  the  Earth-call  of  the  Mother,  which  is  but  the 

voice  of  God!" 


[92] 


TWO  CONSTANTINES 

WHEN  sore  dissension  rent  the  Roman  state, 
After  the  pagan  Diocletian's  reign, 
And  legions  met  and  grappled  and  were  slain, 

And  doubtful  seemed  the  mighty  empire 's  fate, 

To  one  a  cross  appeared.     He  read,  elate, 

"By  this  sign  shalt  thou  conquer!"    Not  in  vain 
He  raised  His  glorious  standard  without  stain ; 

To-day  men  name  him  Const antine  the  Great! 

Lo,  now  another, — a  foiled,  futile  thing, 
A  puppet,  but  the  shadow  of  a  king, 

Conniving,  paltering,  plotting  to  his  fall ; 
Blind  to  all  honor  and  all  sense  of  shame, 
How  shall  the  Muse  of  History  write  his  name  ? 

He  shall  be  ever  Const  antine  the  Small! 


[93] 


FLOWERS  IN  BRUSSELS 

1885-1918 

TO   ROBERT   LIVINSTONE   MASSONNEAU 

I  WONDER  if  remembrance  be  as  kind 

To  you  as  'tis  to  me  ?     If  you  recall 

A  noon  in  Brussels,  blue  skies  over  all, 
And  down  the  stately  streets  a  crooning  wind ; 
And  how  the  crowded  market-ways  were  lined 

With  banks  of  flowers  upheaped  in  booth  and  stall ; 

And  how  joy  soared  as  though  a  festival, 
Some  fair  commemoration  were  designed? 

I  can  but  wish,  old  friend,  that  you  and  I, 

A  few  days  gone,  again  might  have  been  there 

To  see  the  city's  glorious  triumphing 
After  the  months  of  dolor  and  despair ! 
Would  we  not  too  have  shouted  * '  Victory, ' ' 

And  flung  our  flowers  and  greetings  to  the  king ! 


[94] 


FIVE  AND  TWENTY  VALIANT  MEN 

FIVE  and  twenty  valiant  men 

Marching  to  the  wars, 
And  though  their  feet  were  on  the  earth 

Their  heads  were  in  the  stars. 

Five  and  twenty  valiant  men 

Who  have  done  with  wars, 
And  though  their  bodies  rest  in  earth 

Their  souls  are  in  the  stars! 


[95] 


Not  with  the  high-voiced  fife, 
Nor  with  the  deep-voiced  drum, 

To  mark  the  end  of  strife 
The  perfect  Peace  shall  come. 

Nor  pomp  nor  pageant  grand 
Shall  bring  War's  blest  surcease, 

But,  silent,  from  God's  hand 
Shall  come  the  perfect  Peace! 


[96] 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


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